


Patior

by AceOfShadows



Series: Patior ‘Verse [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angsty Mystery!, Foreknowledge gone wrong, Gen, Making and Breaking Friendships, Mistrust, Mystery, Temporary Character Death, The Will of the Ring, Time Travel Fix-It, dark future
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2018-09-19 10:58:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9437126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceOfShadows/pseuds/AceOfShadows
Summary: In a dark future, a prisoner waits for execution - but upon his death, he awakens to find himself in the past among friends, with the knowledge of what is to come. He must find a way to set the future on the correct course, but who can he trust? Where did it all go wrong the first time?





	1. The Iron King

The prisoner asked only for mercy, gazing up at the King with hollow eyes. His body ached from repeated beatings, his wrists and ankles were chafed raw from the shackles that bound him, and now, forced to his knees before the King of Gondor, he asked for compassion in a voice as hollow with grief as his eyes.

King Elessar Telcontar of Gondor, Lord of the Iron Kingdom and all its domains, once known simply as Aragorn, held no mercy in his heart that day. He was the very image of the Kings of old, his hair gleaming despite the heavy cloud cover above them, curling about his hard-won crown and framing noble features worn by long-past struggles. Though he had recently celebrated his ninetieth birthday, he was still as hale and hearty as a man in his early forties, thanks to his Númenórean blood.

_How had it come to this?_

His steel-grey eyes slid past the prisoner to the executioner. The executioner's face was shrouded by the traditional black hood, yet his body language was tense, anticipation set his fingers drumming against the haft of his long-bladed axe, boredom and impatience made his feet shuffle. A crowd looked on, shifting restlessly, beguiled by the voice of the King into complacency and riled to eagerness to see the end of a group of traitors.

"Aragorn." The prisoner forced the name from between chapped lips in a hoarse and broken voice. There was little more he could say, his voice long since rusted away from a lack of use. The King did not respond, dispassionate and aloof as a statue, nodding to the executioner to proceed. That was a name he no longer answered to.

" _Mellon nin. Estel_."

The crowd roared their bloodlust, stomping their feet, drowning out the prisoner's desperate rasp. Only the King had heard the plea, had seen the last flicker of hope fade from once-brilliant blue eyes. The prisoner slumped in his chains, his breath rattling in his chest. There would be no mercy today.

The years he'd spent in the dungeons beneath Minas Tirith had robbed him of his health and vitality: wasting away both muscle and fat as he'd struggled to survive on meagre rations, deprived of sunlight his skin had dulled to an almost ashen paleness. The shackles, which once had been too tight on his wrists and ankles, where the slightest struggle would have bitten into his flesh until it bled, now hung loosely, jangling angrily against protruding bones. A painful cough shook him - the dungeons had been cold and damp and illness had long since overtaken his now-fragile body. He was long past his wild rages, where he had battered himself to pieces against his restraints to escape.

But what had truly beaten him down was watching as, one by one, his friends were escorted from the dungeons, never to return. He had been the mute horrified witness to their pleas for mercy, heard them beg and threaten and bluster and cry, and had been a failing solace to those who remained below. Sometimes, the blood had run down the drains to drip down the dungeon walls. The cells were directly below the executioner's courtyard, where once a tree had blossomed, shining white - the tree had not survived the rise of the Iron Kingdom, and he wondered how long it had taken the King to strike it down.

He was the last prisoner, though he was not sure why. Was it some twisted kindness, to let him outlive the others? Or was it just another form of torture, to make him live through the deaths of his friends? But with his death, the King would rule unopposed.

He lifted his head again, steeling himself for the blow to come and met the King's eyes squarely. He searched those pitiless grey eyes, looking for some sign of the man he had once known - a friend, noble despite his lack of a crown, a leader despite an army to follow him, brave in the face of unrelenting odds. But he could not see that man in the gaze of the man now before him. The man with Aragorn's face smiled, a twisted smile, half-pitying, half-cruel and his hand crept up to grasp the golden ring that hung proudly on a chain about his neck.

At that moment, by uncanny coincidence, the clouds above Minas Tirith parted for a moment, allowing the summer sunlight to fall on the the doomed prisoner and the merciless King. The wind picked up briefly and the prisoner inhaled deeply, catching the faintest scent of trees and green growing things - something he'd been deprived of for years. And then, he lifted his gaze away from the King to gaze up at the sky. The stars twinkled in the break in the clouds, invisible to mortal eyes, but not to his. Their steady gleam was a comfort unlooked for.

And there he knelt, his gaze fixed on the sky above, clinging for as long as he could to this fragile comfort,. The crowd shifted uneasily, their minds stirred to memories that had long been suppressed by the will of the Iron King. Memories of a brighter world, a world before the Iron Kingdom had swept across the lands, snuffing out those who resisted or protested.

And the prisoner spoke, loud enough so that the crowd might hear, knowing that these were to be his final words:

" _Onen i-Estel Edain, ú-chebin estel anim_."

The Iron King scowled, his fingers tightening around the ring, and with his free hand slashed at the air. His furious gaze snapped to the executioner, who hurried forwards, urged on by the voice of the ring. The guards swiftly leapt into action, fearful of the King's anger and the uncertain, shifting mood of the crowd, manhandling the prisoner into position, surprised when he failed to resist, but this did not stop them from sneaking a few unnecessary blows in.

As the executioner approached the stump where a white tree had once stood, a wind gusted hard and an eagle screeched in the sky. The world fell to silence, a collective breath held. The King's will flexed and settled over the crowd again, subduing the restless murmurs and spiking anxieties back to calm obedience. The axe rose high, arcing in the sunlight. The prisoner closed his eyes, breathing a quiet prayer.

The axe swung down with an echoing thump and the crowd screamed in approval.


	2. A Conflict of Memories

All around him was utterly dark. It was as if he waited beneath a sky at night without a moon or stars, or stared into a yawning abyss before his feet. Waiting, he knew, but for what, he did not. He also knew that he was not precisely _standing_ , so much as hanging, for there was nothing beneath his feet. In all honesty, everything about this place felt utterly wrong, alien; not much like a place at all. More like...a between, but much less solid. Much less _real_.

He felt stuck.

Yet, he was not alone. Though he could not see them, he could feel beings all around him. Felt their heat as they brushed against his skin; heard their voices as they whispered without words; flinched when they buffeted him. The strange thing was when _he_ tried to touch _them_ , it was like grabbing smoke from a candle - he could feel the heat, but he caught nothing at all.

For what seemed like an age, he waited in the unbroken darkness.

He barely had a moment to register what was happening as a rumble echoed in the dark, rolling like thunder from afar, heralding a storm to come. _A voice?_ The ghostly presences began to crowd him, invisible iron grips latching onto his arms, his legs, everywhere. He cried out in protest, squirming, and was ignored. The world gave an almighty lurch, and everything seemed to spin out of focus. His stomach heaved uneasily, bile rising in his throat.

He was floating, flying, finally free. It didn't matter where he was going, he no longer cared. Light. Unburdened. Impressions blurred past, of trees and sky and wind, though he could not see them. He didn't understand anything that was happening - except that he was _out_. Sorrow pulled at him, old memories tangling hard and hot in his chest and he was faltering. Falling.

The ghostly presences redoubled their grip and pushed him upwards and on. The impressions became a blaze of blue and grey in his mind's eye, of sea and sky in soaring expanse. Spray that did not touch him flashed from the waves that rose to greet him, the gulls dove and screeched at him, sensing if not seeing him, urging him onwards. _Onwards to where?_ West, west away, the white gulls were calling - _a song, so old, who had sang it to him?_

Endless time passed, and yet no time at all, and then he was brought to a halt, left adrift in the dark once more as the ghosts faded away. His ears buzzed with their fragmented whispers, and he tried to turn, to follow them - _please don't leave me!_ But he was alone.

And then there was pain. Like he was being pulled in all directions at once, caught between opposing forces that refused to let go. He screamed, and no sound escaped him. He was breaking, fragmenting, falling into the endless darkness unable to save himself.

_Please, just let me rest._

_Have I not suffered enough? Have I not done enough?_

And from out of the darkness a voice finally answered: _No._

*.*.*.*.*

  
His eyes snapped open and he blinked slowly, taking in a fuzzy blurred expanse. He took a breath, and felt pain stab in his chest, sending his lungs into spasming coughs - though he inhaled more stone dust than air, which only forced him to cough more. Gravel pressed uncomfortably into his cheek. He blinked again and his sight slowly began to clear, sharpening into clear focus, yet he could make no sense of where he was.

By the _Rodyn_ his head ached.

He pushed himself up to his hands and knees with care, ignoring the stinging pains in his palms and the shake in his arms as he did so. Then he paused, fresh confusion blossoming in his mind. Settling back on his knees, he looked down at his hands, flipping them over to see familiar calluses and yet not. His hands had long ago lost their strength, he remembered, his knuckles had been so harsh and stark, but these hands were not. They were solid and strong, grazed from the gravel, the calluses were still hard from repeated wear.

The slide and crunch of approaching footsteps snapped him out of his reverie, and he looked up--

And the Iron King looked back at him, no mercy in those grey eyes, a mouth set with cruelty as he motioned the executioner forwards; he scrambled back--

"Legolas?" Aragorn's voice was full of concern as he knelt before him, brow furrowed in worry. He was speaking Sindarin, though the language had been banned years ago. " _Mellon nin, I will not hurt you._ "

Legolas stared back, eyes wide with a sudden fear, chest heaving and his heart pounding fit to burst, pressed against the rock face as far away from Aragorn as he could possibly manage. He did not remember moving - surely he could not have moved so quickly, not after so long in the dungeons. He had barely had the strength to hold himself up at the end, it had taken two guards to carry him up to the courtyard...

_Something was terribly wrong._

Memories ripped through his bewildered mind with painful clarity: Aragorn and the Ring, the Iron Kingdom, three _years_ in the dungeons, his _execution_. Yet here, Aragorn was in front of him, young and unburdened by the Ring and kingship. As if it had never been.

" _You fell, my friend,_ " Aragorn explained slowly, his hands held out, a gesture of peace. " _You hit your head, you're confused. Let me help you._ "

Legolas shook his head, trying to banish the double image before him, of Ranger and King, of friend and foe with the same face. This was some trick, a last torment sent by the Ring to lull him into death. He shook his head again and cried out as pain lanced through his head at the movement. He squeezed his eyes shut, his body curling up on itself defensively; he was so _lost_. Nothing made sense. He had to wait for his head to clear and then he would wake up and be back in his cell once more. Perhaps he'd only dreamed his execution, and perhaps he was only dreaming this.

_Wake up, Legolas!_

Still no matter how hard he tried, he could not seem to bring himself out of this dream, and though he tried to block them out, whispering voices still wormed their way into his ears, refusing to give him peace.

_"What is the matter with him?"_

_"I'm not sure. He behaved as if he didn't recognise me...his memory might be affected."_

_"What do we do then? If he can't be moved..."_

_"Surely we cannot just leave him like this."_

_"I will go down to him."_

The harsh crunch and rush of gravel heralded the arrival of the last voice, but this time Legolas did not look up. He would not be drawn further into this, he refused to play along - the Iron King was known for playing such tricks on his captives, creating elaborate escape fantasies, only to torment them further by jolting them back to reality just as they'd began to believe the hallucination to be truth.

A pair of strong hands seized hold of his shoulders in a gentle grip, and he had to fight the urge to flinch. It wasn't real, he reminded himself. He was in his cell, in Minas Tirith, awaiting the whims of the King. As grim as his reality might be, he could not allow himself to be drawn into the comfort of the illusion.

" _Legolas._ " The newest voice said softly, yet firmly. But the voice was in his _mind_ , not aloud. Did that mean it was in the real world? He hoped so. " _Amdirchír, open your eyes._ "

There was no mistaking the tone of command in that voice and he could not help but recognise it just as well as he knew his own voice. " _Mithrandir!_ " His mind called back, in relief, choking on the desperate hope that unfurled in his chest. His eyes flew open, scanning familiar features. But the face that stared back him, scanning him with a critical eye was not the Mithrandir he had last known: a weathered Human face and blazing blue eyes, shrouded in grey - not white. The last time he had seen Mithrandir, he had been in White.

Legolas squeezed his eyes shut again. " _I don't understand,_ " he whispered in his mind, mostly to himself. Only Mithrandir could have known his birth-name; he had never told it to Aragorn, only his family and Mithrandir. Could the Ring had pulled it from his memories? Maybe. He did not know.

" _Amdirchír_ ," Mithrandir's voice soothed him. " _This is quite real. As Aragorn tried to explain, you took a bad fall and hit your head._ " The wizard's mind offered up images to him, his own memories of watching the young vibrant Elf offer to test the log bridge, the Company's cries of shock as the log broke and sent Legolas tumbling down the slope, breaking his fall against the rocks below.

Legolas watched these memories with rising horror as his mind supplied in exchange, not one but two different versions of the events Mithrandir showed him: one in which he cleared the log bridge with no difficulty, turning back to beckon the Fellowship across with a brilliant smile, and one in which, as Mithrandir clearly remembered, his foot had struck the wrong section of the log and he had fallen.

" _Which is real?_ " He found himself asking, opening his eyes once more, beseeching Mithrandir to understand, to solve his confusion. " _I remember both._ "

For once, it seemed that the ancient Wizard could offer up no explanation. His thoughts were racing, chasing down possibilities, and his sharp blue eyes seemed to pierce through Legolas. Many times the young Elf had been on the receiving end of that stare, and Mithrandir's thoughts seemed no clearer now than they had ever been, even with their minds brushing as they were now.

"Legolas Greenleaf, what will your father say when he hears that you injured yourself mere weeks into our Quest?" Mithrandir said instead aloud, changing the subject, as he gently examined Legolas' various bruises and the myriad of cuts he'd acquired in his fall. His mind began to withdraw from Legolas, which could only mean that he was keeping his council to himself.

However Legolas had no thoughts left to ponder what Mithrandir might have gleaned, for when he mentioned his father, Legolas' heart stuttered, and he shot forwards, clutching at the Wizard, despite the pain. " _Adar?_ " he breathed, half-frantic. " _My father is alive?_ " When his mental inquiry went unanswered, he forced the words into the open air with a stumbling tongue.

Mithrandir's bushy eyebrows raised. "Of course he is. You saw him yourself, mere weeks ago, just before you came at his behest to Imladris for counsel."

Counsel. Imladris. Memories drifted like wisps of fog through his mind and he chased them down, seeking answers - His father, furious and grieved at the latest orc attack and the loss of many Elves and the creature Gollum weighing heavily on his heart; yet also, crouched in his cell in Minas Tirith, holding the shattered remains of a crown woven of oak and beech, of red leaves and holly berries, ignoring the splinters that dug into his hands and the laughter of the Iron King.

_Which is true? The first memory, and the second mere confused imaginings?_

They both felt _real._

Legolas, for the first time, looked up properly, taking in his surroundings with intent. Around him, rocks that he had narrowly missed colliding with, the jagged shards that were all that remained of the log bridge and the shale slope that he now rested on. Mithrandir before him, studying him with an almost guarded expression. And above them, at the top of the slope, the other seven members of the Fellowship of the Ring, still fresh-faced from their time in Rivendell. Next to Samwise stood a pony, whose name Legolas could not recall. But he understood the implications nevertheless.

Assuming this was, as Mithrandir asserted, quite real, and this was not some nightmarish trick...then he had a second chance. Hope fluttered, frail and battered, in his chest. They had a chance to make it all _right_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this chapter was hard. Initially, I posted the first chapter as a whim, I wasn't expecting it to be so popular! But thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed so far and convinced me that I did need to carry it onwards. 
> 
> Special shout-out to my betas, not only for putting up with my writing nonsense, but also for providing the sentence prompts that led to this fic (They wanted something light and fluffy, they got Patior instead; their mistake, they should never have given me sentences about axes and prisoners.)
> 
> The song that Legolas mentions at the beginning of this chapter is, of course, a reference to the song he sings in the books, at the end of Return of the King.


	3. Disorientate; Reorientate

The smell of tall trees sounded him, oak and beech, fir and holly. Beneath him, the grass was soft and slightly damp, tickling his ears, the back of his neck and his bare feet. Rínor's presence by his side was a welcome one, a solid reassuring source of safety.

The two brothers lounged carelessly on a small hill, the younger wide eyed and brightly curious, the elder resting more sedately. Both pretended not to notice the weapons that were within arm's reach of Rínor, or the watchful presence of rangers patrolling nearby. The forest had grown more dangerous of late, even Legolas, young as he was, was all too aware of this.

But both were pretending that this was not the case, if only for a little while.

"What is that one called?" he asked, pointing up at the bright red star gleaming hotly above them through the gap in the trees.

"Hmm?" Rínor cracked open an eye to see where Legolas was pointing, and then chuckled. "The red one? We call it _Borgil_." He lifted his arm, tracing out a constellation with a long elegant finger. "Next to it is _Menelvagor_ , the Swordsman of the Sky."

"There's so many of them," Legolas said softly. The sky seemed to go on forever, as far as he could see, at least. Twinkling white and blue and yellow and red, in beautiful spinning patterns, steady and constant. He could watch them forever. "Did Elbereth really make them all?"

Rínor rolled onto his side, looking at Legolas with a serious gleam in his eyes, even if he was smiling. "That is what they sa-- _You need to hold still._ "

What was that? Legolas frowned as the new voice, gentle but firm broke into his awareness, speaking over Rínor. Although his brother continued to speak, Legolas could not hear him.

" _Legolas. You need to look at me, my friend. Do you hear me?_ "

A firm hand took hold of his jaw, turning his head away from Rínor. Legolas blinked and the stars blurred, and the world changed. The Iron King stared back at him, framed by the stars of the _Cerch i-Mbelain_ , eyes metal-cold in the pale light of the moon. Legolas flinched, startled, jerking out of his grip as pain lanced through his head. Disorientated, he scrambled, hands clutching at the loose soil where moments ago he was certain it had been grass. Where was he? What was going on?

" _Rínor!_ " Where was his brother? He had just been here.

"Legolas," the Iron King said, his voice ringing with alarm and concern. "Calm yourself, _mellon nin_. _You are safe, I swear._ " he added in Sindarin. Grey eyes bored into him, but there was no malice there, no twisted semblance of pity. His hand took Legolas' and the Elf flinched again, panic beginning to choke him. His breath came in sharp gasps as he tried to jerk himself free. It was too much, too much. He didn't understand, why was the Iron King trying to be _kind_? It didn't make sense. _A trick, a trick, it's all a trick._

" _Be at ease, my friend_. I just need you to focus on me."

Focus? On him. Legolas fought the urge to scramble away again, forcing his panic-stricken body to absolute stillness, as the fog of confusion in his mind began to clear once more. This was not the Iron King, he was not in the Iron Kingdom anymore. Aragorn's face swam before him, one moment concerned ranger, the next enraged tyrant. Focus, focus, focus. Here and now, Legolas.

"Were you dreaming?" Aragorn asked, every inch the empathetic healer once more. His own behaviour was alarming, Legolas knew, but he just couldn't help it - the Iron King had inspired fear by his very presence, and every one of Legolas' instincts screamed at him whenever he was near. He could not be trusted.

Legolas shook his head, biting back a gasp of pain at the movement. His vision blurred again. "Memory-walking." He hadn't even realised he'd been doing it until Aragorn had startled him back into the present - he'd been trying to distract himself while Aragorn cleaned the jagged cut that split his forehead. The close proximity had been almost too much for Legolas, who wanted nothing more than to be as far away from his former friend as possible. Current friend? His head ached.

He was with the Fellowship, on the Quest. The Iron Kingdom did not exist. _Yet_. Would not exist if he could help it. These were facts, safe and dependable as the stars. _Pull yourself together,_ he chided himself sharply, trying to steady his breathing. _Pay attention._

He returned his attention on the others, only to find that Mithrandir had approached, evidently drawn by all the commotion he had caused. A brief spike of shame lanced through him; he had not even noticed the Wizard's approach, so absorbed had he been in his thoughts.

"I do not think we should go any further tonight-" Aragorn said, switching back to the common tongue. "-not with Legolas so confused and hurt. If we are attacked, I'd rather he was somewhere safer and better rested. If only it was morning and I could see the extent of this injury better."

Legolas suppressed a retort, that he was _fine_ , and certainly did not like being talked about as if he could not understand. He could only hope his annoyance had not shown on his face - Aragorn did not like to be defied. Had not liked. Did not? What was he like _now_? What had he been like, what person had he been during this part of his life, before the rise of the Iron Kingdom? He couldn't quite remember, everything was so jumbled.

Mithrandir's all too knowing gaze swept over the Elf, his mind closed tight. Whatever he had figured out, he was not telling now - hardly unusual, for he often kept his theories to himself. "A wise idea, Aragorn. I shall inform the others to make camp. A rest will be good for the Hobbits in any case; they are all but asleep on their feet." He strode past them back towards where the remainder of the Fellowship were clustered - they were, quite pointedly, not staring at Legolas and Aragorn - and as he passed, he patted Legolas' shoulder gently. It was an old familiar gesture, strangely soothing. He appreciated it greatly, though he could not find the words to say so.

"Legolas." Aragorn's voice commanded his attention once more, away from Mithrandir's low explanation. "Are you listening?" When he reluctantly gave a small nod - he was not a _child_ who needed to be reprimanded! - Aragorn smiled and continued. "Good. This is important, so I wished to be sure, especially given the dangers of a head wound. If you need me to explain anything further, please, say so."

Legolas gave another small nod, not trusting himself to speak, and then immediately regretted it. Every movement was as if nails were being driven into his skull. And just who was _screaming_? He looked around, but there was no one else around. He made a quick count of the Fellowship, scanning them for signs of distress, but no, they had not screamed.

"Legolas." He jerked his attention back to Aragorn once more.

"I apologise," he forced out, his voice cracking. "I thought...perhaps...that I'd heard something. But I was mistaken."

Aragorn's eyes narrowed a fraction in suspicion, and Legolas struggled to maintain a neutral expression, despite the renewed screaming. Thankfully, the man did not press him further and began a litany of dangerous symptoms that he was supposed to be looking out for; Legolas, for all that he did try to listen, quickly forgot most of them, and the rest were drowned out by the intermittent screaming. "Do try and sleep tonight," Aragorn advised, just as the screaming died away again. "Your body needs the rest; but I will be waking you every few hours to check on you, understand?"

He nodded once more, biting his tongue. He wanted to say he'd suffered far worse, but how could he explain that to Aragorn? It was better that he did not know. It was a moot point in any case; there was no chance he'd be able to sleep tonight.

But with that said, the pair rejoined the rest of the Fellowship, Aragorn immediately drawing Mithrandir to one side for a quiet conversation. No doubt they were discussing him, Legolas thought, with only a hint of bitterness. Worse though, he was now alone with the others, and bereft of how to act.

He stood, awkward and unsure, at the edges of the group, drinking in their familiar faces. He hadn't had a chance until now to really _look_ at them all; to see them as they were now, grumbling at the cold, complaining at the lack of comfort, and teasing each other gently about being tired. There was no sunken gauntness to their cheeks, no pained rasps in their voices. Gimli's beard was still proudly red and boasted warrior braids; Merry's face was whole and unscarred; Pippin was bright and boisterous still, despite his tiredness; Boromir's eyes were not shadowed by unspeakable horrors. Frodo and Sam sat side by side, wonderfully, amazingly, _alive_.

His eyes blurred with tears. Here they all were; his closest friends alive and well, untouched by the horrors of the Iron Kingdom and the dungeons of Minas Tirith. They had no idea of the torment he had once watched them endure, and for a shining moment, Legolas was _glad_.

"Mister Legolas?" Samwise had turned to look at him, squinting in the pale moonlight. Hastily, Legolas brushed away his tears, hoping the young Hobbit hadn't noticed. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, my apologies," he rasped. Speaking was much harder than he recalled, and hopefully it would improve again with practice. He hoped. If not, it was the least of his problems.

Slowly, he released his held breath and forced himself forward to join the others, every movement driving nails into his skull. His vision swam for the first few staggering steps, and then, mercifully, began to clear. _He was fine, he could travel_ , his own voice mocked him as he tugged his bedroll free from the small pile of their belongings. He could do this, he was of the Woodland Realm after all - he would not yield to this. He could be himself again, among friends, and relax. He had no reason to be nervous.

And yet...

An uncomfortable prickle formed between his shoulders, and his stomach lurched uneasily. Legolas froze, every muscle tense, pausing mid-motion in settling his bedroll. He stilled his breathing, straining his ears to listen. The quiet murmuring of Gandalf and Aragorn, the rustling of fabric as the wind gusted abruptly, the quiet clink of weaponry in their sheathes and Gimli's mail shirt. Only the Fellowship moved in this rocky landscape.

He looked up, to find that the quiet conversations had ceased and all eyes had turned to watch him. Boromir and the two younger Hobbits wore open looks of amazement, though Boromir was quick to hide it. Frodo quickly pulled himself together and engaged Sam in a very obvious attempt to distract them.

 _Why had they been staring?_ Had he done something wrong? Something rude perhaps?

His question was answered by a pointed sniff from Gimli, and he quickly looked down to find the Dwarf swiftly shifting his bedroll further away from Legolas. The realisation hit Legolas like a summer storm: he and Gimli were not friends. Yet. How could he have forgotten? For Gimli, at this time in their lives, the two of them were nothing more than unwilling travelling companions, content to ignore each other, lest they dissolve into petty passive aggressive sniping. There was no way that they would have willingly slept so close together, unless forced. They were at least a month away from even tentatively becoming friends.

But he could not shake the memories of their friendship: gentle laughter and banter under the trees of Lothlórien; fierce battles fought side by side; Dwarf-song rising defiantly in the darkness of the dungeons, blending well with his own voice; gruff reassurances that could not hide the genuine concern underneath.

The way he had screamed himself hoarse as the guards had dragged Gimli from his cell, never to return, leaving him utterly and terrifyingly alone.

He would not let _that_ happen again.

He had just finished settling his bedroll when Mithrandir and Aragorn rejoined them; each looking grave and solemn as they sat down among the group.

"We are four days from Caradhras," Gandalf said, settling down with a huff and reaching for his pipe. "The mountain pass will be dangerous, but not impossible. From there, some of our Company may choose to follow their own paths, or continue on with the Ringbearer as the Company bears South."

The Company exploded in loud protest at the suggestion; fervent denials from the Hobbits especially that they would not be leaving Frodo. Legolas bristled slightly, sensing that the Wizard's words were somehow directed at him. Mirkwood lay beyond the Misty Mountains after all, it would not be arduous in the least for him to head north instead of south, towards his home.

He could not deny the longing that surged in his heart at the thought: he might see his father, his brother, his aunt...to run beneath the trees of his home once more, to breathe deep the smell of green and growing things. All things he had been denied for so long. It would be so easy - and there he realised Gandalf's intent beneath his words. He was, in his own way, reminding him that he might turn aside from the Quest without shame. There would be no dishonour in bidding them farewell after the mountain pass; his people were in dire need and the Fellowship would understand, especially if his confusion and physical weakness persisted.

But knowing what he did, having lived those last three years, he could not turn aside. He could not allow Aragorn to fall again. Legolas set his shoulders firmly and met Mithrandir's gaze unwavering, willing him to understand. He would not leave.

The Wizard gave him the tiniest of nods in return, imperceptible in the darkness to the night-blind mortals, but perfectly clear to him. He would not try and persuade him to leave again, Legolas guessed. Meanwhile, Aragorn had managed to calm the others to a more reasonable level of noise.

"We will move on again at dawn," Aragorn said, cutting through the remaining protests, "and then stop again before noon to remain out of sight. For now, however, we should all rest, and Gandalf has graciously agreed to keep watch until sunrise."

A shiver passed through Legolas as the Fellowship grudgingly settled down to sleep and he turned his eyes skyward, searching for the source of his uneasiness. The darkness was no hindrance to his eyes, for like all Elves, he needed only the light of stars and moon to see well enough - but nothing lurked there, save the glittering familiarity of the stars. No birds, not even an owl on silent wings disturbed the night. Only the Fellowship moved in this rocky landscape, easing into the rhythmic murmurings of sleep.

He waited, breathing slow, until he was certain the others were all fast asleep, before getting to his feet once more. Gandalf all but shone in his eyes, seemingly lit from within by an ancient soft light; and as he drew close, sitting down cross-legged next to the old wizard, Gandalf watched him with eyes that burned like the hottest flame.

It was a long moment before Legolas gathered the courage to speak: "I have something I need to tell you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, I know, but here we are! Thank you for coming back to Patior, loyal readers; hopefully I'll be able to get the next chapter out soon, but in the meantime, I hope you enjoyed this one.
> 
> Like what you read here and want updates on when you'll get more? Want to chat about lotr, headcanons, or just ask me questions in general? I now have a tumblr - so go find me at veilfireshadows.tumblr.com


	4. Looking Up

The dark landscape stretched out before him, rolling hills and jagged rocks, the grass shivering in sudden gusts of wind. Trees were few and far between in this land, but he could still feel them, their remote voices calling softly to him, recognising him for what he was.

Legolas sighed, breaking the silence that stretched between him and Gandalf. “I apologise, Mithrandir,” he whispered. “In truth, I do not even know how to explain. Where to begin.”

“At the start, my dear Elf,” Gandalf said softly, stretching out a gnarled hand to pat him gently on the shoulder. Legolas drew his knees up to his chest, hugging them close. He appreciated the small comfort, the strong and steady presence of the Wizard beside him, the fact that even now he was not pushing him.

“I would, if I knew where that was,” Legolas said, a fragile smile tugging at his lips. How long had it been since he’d felt safe enough to smile? A miracle in itself. But he was safe with Gandalf, that was a certainty in his suddenly uncertain world. He had known him since he was a small elfling, still figuring out his place in the world, confused by his mixed heritage and complicated family. Gandalf had always had a knack for showing up when he had a particularly difficult problem to solve, and for always putting him on the right track once more.

This was different however: the consequences of what he had seen reached farther than Legolas could even begin to contemplate, he was sure. What he had experienced, the dark future that awaited, it would swallow the world once more if no one stopped it. But what if, in revealing what he knew now to Mithrandir, he created something worse? Such was the dilemma that warred in his mind now.

Fear gripped his heart, sudden and alarming. Prevent what you can, the fear whispered to him. Someone needs to know. “I do not think we should take to the slopes of Caradhras. The Hobbits will not handle the cold and snow well, and the mountains are fraught with perils. We could easily encounter any number of dangers on those narrow paths; snowstorms and—” he broke off, unable to think of the word he sought in Westron. “ _Ai_ , Mithrandir, where the snow comes down the slopes…snow-flood?”

“An avalanche?” Gandalf’s tone was vaguely amused.

“ _Avalanche_ ,” Legolas rolled the word in his mouth, stretching the syllables and committing them to memory once more. He could remember it now: in Boromir’s voice, a shouted warning, before the snow had thundered down the mountainside impossibly fast. Suffocating, thick snow all around him, battering his body even as he struggled against it. _Avalanche_. A small word for such a harrowing experience. Westron words often felt too small in his mouth, almost lacking somehow.

“Aragorn and I have discussed such dangers, Legolas,” Gandalf explained patiently. “And we all agreed that it was the safest road of our choices. Not safe, but safer.” He frowned. “What other path would you have us take?

Legolas shook his head. “I do not know, I…just that Caradhras will be the wrong choice for us. Perhaps Boromir is correct after all, perhaps the Gap of Rohan should be our path. We do not need to fear Saruman, his attention is not on us at all, even if he does send his crebain to spy. His focus is bent almost entirely on _Aran_ Thèoden— ”

The change in Gandalf’s countenance was immediate and terrible, a flare of his great power in his eyes and in his bearing. Legolas shrank back from him in alarm. “Legolas Greenleaf,” Gandalf said, in a voice, which, although pitched low so as to not disturb those members of the Fellowship still asleep, still rang with power. “How did you come to know this? How do you know the mind and plans of Saruman so plainly?”

He braced himself for a blow, curling tighter in on himself, as his words stopped dead in his throat. His body sang with a familiar tension, waiting for the rain of torment that was sure to come. He had not meant to anger Gandalf, he had spoken without thought, lulled by the security he must have imagined. His instincts screamed in conflict with each other: run and hide, _no_ , weather the torture and keep silent, _no_ , tell him everything he wants to know, _no_ , lie to him!

“Legolas,” Gandalf’s hands gripped his arms, startling him into meeting that impossibly deep blue gaze. “Legolas, I must understand how you came to know this. If you have been compromised, if your mind is no longer your own, if this Quest is compromised, I _must_ know. You must tell me. Speak!”

The compulsion washed over him, as gentle as a wave, tugging words of truth to the fore. So very different from the whispers of the Ring, so very different from the conniving games of the Iron King, but he still bitterly resented its use. “It is what happened last time,” the words forced themselves out from between clenched teeth, even as he fought to resist. Then abruptly, the compulsion vanished and the tension rushed out of him in relief. He gasped down a desperate breath, chest heaving. _Never again._ He would _never_ allow someone to take his mind like that again.

The Wizard before him backed away, just a little, confusion gentling his features, even as pity stirred in his eyes. “Last time? You have…?”

“I have done this before, Mithrandir,” the words spilled from his mouth, too fast to stop, even if he had wanted to, a whispered torrent of truth. “All of the Quest, every step. From now until our bitter failure and the consequences, oh Mithrandir, it was awful. I could not stop him, I did not see, none of us did until it was too late. It had taken him and we were lost.” Tears began to slide, unchecked, down his cheeks, splattering onto his tunics. How his head ached. “I do not even remember where it all went wrong. I have forgotten so much. It must have been building for months, but there were so many other things happening that I did not notice. All the lies he must have told me, I cannot even begin to fathom how many he must have told himself. And then there was nothing I could do, I tried, believe me I tried. I saved who I could. But in the end…I died too.”

Gandalf stared at him, his expression too complex for Legolas’ tired mind to puzzle out. And then slowly, the ancient Wizard drew closer to him again, sitting side by side, shoulder to shoulder, letting the weary Elf lean against him in wordless comfort. Slowly, Legolas remembered that soon, horrifically soon, the Fellowship would lose Gandalf. Not forever, but at their most desperate hour, when his wisdom might have kept them together. Was that the defining moment? Was that when it had gone so wrong?

“If you have returned to us,” Gandalf said, turning his gaze to the stars, or perhaps even, further still, “from beyond the veil of death, then the Valar must have some purpose yet for you to fulfil.”

Legolas blinked in confusion. “You…you believe me?”

“There is no lie in your eyes,” Gandalf said simply. “The pieces of memory you shared me with when you first fell, the desperation and the confusion, and your behaviour since…they all tell a story, my friend. They tell a terrible tale of a future that can never be allowed to come again, of the horrors you have been forced to endure. I regret that you must retread your steps with us again. But you are not the first Elf to return from beyond the veil, you know, nor, should the prophecies of Mandos prove true, will you be the last to be returned from death.”

 _Lord Glorfindel_. There had always been whispered rumours in his homeland about the golden-haired Ñoldo, and that the mild-mannered Glorfindel that resided in Elrond’s house was _the_ Glorfindel of Gondolin, Balrog-slayer, returned to life. Certainly the powers that he seemed to possess, the way he had faced the Nazgûl to save Frodo’s life, he was more than he appeared. It was a small comfort, in a way, to know that he was not as alone as he’d feared.

“What you say troubles me more,” Gandalf continued, his expression becoming serious once again. “I regret that I must ask you to share it with me in greater detail, for I can see it causes you great pain.” When Legolas hesitated, Gandalf continued, “I apologise, but if we are to prevent this dark future, then I must know as much as you can recall.”

“I have one condition.”

“So long as it does not endanger another, and is within my power, I will concede to it.”

“You cannot tell the others, especially not Aragorn.” Gandalf made to object, but Legolas quickly overrode him. “He cannot know, at least not yet. What I am going to tell you, it would…he would not believe it possible, or worse, he would and the knowing would destroy him. In truth, I would spare you from my story, for I would rather not burden anyone with what I know.”

Gandalf nodded, his expression grave. “I understand. The telling will be for you to do, then, when you decide he is ready for it. The others as well. For I fear that although you might wish to keep it from them, they will begin to suspect something is wrong. They will need to know, for good or ill. I will advise you when I believe the time is right, unless you decide for yourself sooner.”

Legolas sighed, fear still tight around his heart. “Then, I will tell you briefly, and you may ask me what questions you may. I cannot guarantee that I have the answers, for there is much that I was not aware of, and much that I have forgotten. Some I will not tell you, for the grief is still too near.”

He shivered, his attention caught briefly by an owl swooping overhead, silent wings framed by the light of the stars. He closed his eyes for a moment, memories stirring like autumn leaves disturbed by a sudden winter’s wind. And for just a second, he saw his last years stretched out before him in his mind, their order jumbled, full of gaps—

_The winged crown of Gondor, resting on glossy black hair. He should be pleased but he feels only trepidation and a vague dread— Weeping in a dark cell opposite, he reaches out a hand to them through the bars, but they are too far away to reach— The intense gaze of the Lady Galadriel as she hands him a new bow, speaking into his mind, “I hope you never have to raise this against one you call friend.”— Gandalf gleaming all in White, astride a white horse— the furious clash of swords, his own voice, rasping and broken, rising above the din, “Take the Lady and run! Do not look back!”— pain, endless pain, in the dark, alone._

He heard Gandalf call his name and he forced his eyes open once more. An almost inaudible whimper escaped him, and he could not bear to let himself look at Gandalf’s face. He knew the pity and the sorrow he would see there, and he knew he would fall apart at such a thing. Not yet. He had to endure telling his story first, however brief he can make it. He took a deep breath, hoping to steady himself, even a little, before launching into his tale.

His voice was steady, low and grim, despite the roiling chaos he felt within. “There is no easy way to tell you what will occur. It is…January now, is it not? It seems odd to me that so much could happen in so little time, but, it will. Or, at least, it did for me.” He shook his head, dismissing the tangent. “I…I can tell you that in my time, in the life I lived before, Aragorn was King by May. He took the throne of Gondor, shortly after he defeated Sauron in battle in March. That was the first time I saw him wield it openly, I cannot fathom when he took it. When it took him. The Ring.” He shivered again, his tongue tripping slightly over the Ring, so deep was his fear of it embedded in his soul. He heard Gandalf’s sharp intake of breath, sensed the question hanging on the air. “I do not know how it came to be, so pray, do not ask. I remember only flashes of that time. I do not know what became of Frodo and Samwise…I recall Aragorn saying that they had escaped the orcs, that they had gone to Mordor alone…but I must now wonder if that was a lie. I never saw them again after that.

“In my time, Aragorn took the Ring, and became King of Gondor and Arnor. But so quickly, it all turned wrong. He grew more quick to anger, and his compassion faded away. He became obsessed with the idea of peace, of a unified ideal kingdom, where there was never war or pain or fear. In secret, many people were arrested on false charges to use as hostages to enforce Aragorn’s will in other lands, myself included. Of course, few accepted this, and our world was darkened by war once more. But Aragorn’s will, and the Will of the Ring, could not be stopped. His Iron Kingdom, as it came to be known, consumed Rohan and the other realms of Men and the Shire; where they could, Elves fled to the Sea in droves, and the Dwarves hid themselves away, rebelling in secret and aiding in rescuing and hiding those who fled the wrath of the Iron King.” His breath shook as he steeled himself against the tears that welled up, unbidden. “People were slaughtered, massacred, for the peace the Iron King demanded. Those who remained were bent to his will, their minds enslaved. The hostages of those who refused to bend were publicly executed periodically, as reminders of his power.

“I was the last, I do not know why. I remember the proclamation, in March, just after the Iron King’s ninetieth birthday: I was to be executed, and the following day he would declare the end of the Third Age of Middle-Earth, and the beginning of the Fourth, the Age of Men. I was a symbol, to mark a final severing to his past and to effectively mark the end of a conspiracy that had never happened, save in propaganda. I died, and then…I awoke here, minutes later, as if none of it ever happened.”

He fell silent, and then broke into soundless heaving sobs. How hard it was to hear himself say it, that those brutal years could be condensed so briefly, like it had been a story made up by one of their story-singers of Mirkwood, like a summary of a book that might be found in Lord Elrond’s library. But he did not know how to tell him of the horrors of that time, the darkness that had consumed once fair lands, that he had feared one of his closest friends more than he feared the Dark Lord himself.

Gandalf was silent also, consumed by thought, shaken by what he had heard. He must have a thousand questions, Legolas knew, but he had no inclination to answer them now. Though he knew Gandalf would ask, he needed a moment first to recover.

“Two years you have suffered,” Gandalf said softly; though Legolas had always thought it was three, he did not trust his own reckoning of mortal years. “Two years, and now they are undone as though they never were, save in your mind alone. Oh Legolas, _Amdirchír_ , what a terrible thing.”

“Please do not,” Legolas interrupted, harsher than he intended, his voice rough with sorrow. “Please, Mithrandir, I cannot bear your pain too, your pity. Please, please do not.”

“Then,” Gandalf said gruffly, though Legolas suspected the old Wizard was fighting back his own tears. “I must ask, during all of this, where was I? For surely, I did not agree to Aragorn keeping the Ring, nor his mad plan.”

And for a moment, Legolas was speechless, brows drawn in confusion as he searched his ruined memories of that dark time. Where had Mithrandir been? When had he last seen him? “You were…in Rohan? At Helm’s Deep with us. And then, yes, I remember seeing you at Isengard. But then you left? I do not recall seeing you hence, certainly not after Aragorn was crowned.”

“Odd, indeed. For I would not have allowed such a thing to come about if I could prevent it. I wonder where that other-me was, what he was doing while the world fell into darkness.” Gandalf shook his head.

From there began a dizzying back-and-forth of questions, many of which Legolas found he could not answer sufficiently, his memory of the event either unclear or vanished from his mind entirely. The fates of Meriadoc and Boromir, he could not rightly recall, though he remember the executions of Peregrin and Gimli. He recounted which countries had surrendered to the Iron Kingdom without a fight, and which had been conquered, and which had been utterly wiped out. He was forced to recount as best he could who else was imprisoned in the dungeons with them, descriptions if he could not remember names, their inevitable deaths. As the night dragged on, Legolas wept many more times, from sorrow, from frustration, from remembered pain.

“Gandalf?” Aragorn’s sleepy mumble broke into Legolas’ second recounting of the defeat of Sauron. Gandalf had insisted on hearing it again, in as much detail as possible. Legolas broke off at the sound of his voice, sudden terror freezing him in place. The darkness of the night became the darkness of his cell, the winter-cold of the stone seeping into his bones. He shook his head, once, twice, sinking his hands into the soil beneath him, trying to anchor himself in the present.

Blue eyes appeared in his field of vision once more, and he felt, distantly, Gandalf’s hands grasp his own. The Wizard squeezed his hands firmly, pulling him more firmly into the moment once more.

“ _Amdirchír_.” Legolas took a deep breath, letting the sound of his birth-name wash over him. “Look up, Amdirchír.”

Puzzled, he followed Gandalf’s gaze, towards the mountains, and then could not help but stare.

Though the mountains were cast into shadow, even the snow that capped their peaks, there was a band of swirled orange and yellow as the sun began its slow ascent. The clouds rolled lazily across the vast expanse of lightening sky, changing from the deep tones of night to fiery shades that stood out in stark contrast to the blues behind them. Purples and pinks dominated where the sun had not yet reached, but slowly night surrendered its grip to the encroaching light of day. A new dawn had broken over Middle-Earth, a day of no particular significance to most, but held one Elf enraptured, just as the stars had held the first Elves at the bay of Cuiviénen.

And Legolas, who had no tears left to shed after a night which felt as long as years, laughed at the light of the morning sun, at the rising dawn, a deep soul-shaking laughter that was sheer delight. He had not seen the sun rise since before his imprisonment, had not felt it on his skin save that brief shining moment during his execution, that he was still not sure had been a natural occurrence. It was beautiful. A massive grin spread across his face, sincere and unrestrained, rejoicing in something as simple yet breath-taking as the dawn.


	5. A Friendly Bout

The morning that broke that day was cold, the air bitter sharp, heralding the promise of colder temperatures to come. Legolas inhaled deeply, feeling it dig into his lungs with relish. Clean, crisp air, without the taste of damp stone and mould. The pale sun was lurking low in the mountains, but he still revelled in the sheer brightness of it, the faint warmth on his skin, He could not help the smile that broke across his face, despite the exhaustion that lurked deep in his bones.

_He was alive._

The fact had not quite stopped being novel to him, and he had not yet had a chance to truly appreciate it. Despite all the plans and machinations of the Iron King, he had _failed_ , in the end. Legolas lived, and within him, there was now a flicker of hope.

The camp of the Fellowship was all in motion, a hubbub of activity, that thrilled Legolas down to his _fëa_. Aragorn, despite Legolas’ objections, had firmly opposed a full day of travel - and had instead only moved their camp to a more easily defensible and more hidden location. His justification was, apparently, that he did not agree with Gandalf’s assessment that Legolas could endure a long difficult trek, and it would be better for him to rest as much as possible during the day, and they could continue their journey again when it was dark.

So now, Legolas was sitting cross-legged upon a flat sun-warmed rock, carefully repairing the holes that had been torn in his outer tunic during his earlier fall. The dizzy spells he had suffered before had eased during the night, and he felt...it was an odd sensation to describe, but he felt more _solid_. More present at least.

On occasion though, he could still hear the distant screaming.

He was doing his best to ignore that.

The rest of the Fellowship, it seemed, was enjoying what was essentially a rest-day. Gimli was sitting relatively nearby to Legolas (which surprised him, but he enjoyed nevertheless) intently focusing on inspecting his weapons for damage. Aragorn had disappeared to scout ahead, and Mithrandir seemed to be fast asleep - Legolas did not blame him, feeling a twinge of guilt for keeping the elderly Wizard awake all night. But he felt more secure now, knowing that at least Mithrandir knew, and could help him prevent the future he had endured. (A part of him still wondered at Mithrandir’s question from the night before - where _had_ Mithrandir been as the Iron Kingdom had risen up in tyranny? He could not think of an answer.) Samwise was tending to the pony - _Bill_ , Legolas recalled abruptly, pleased with himself for remembering - and Frodo, sat nearby, his gentle face creased in a worried frown as he watched Boromir train the youngest two Hobbits in the use of a sword.

Legolas found his attention slowly drifting away from his stitching, drawn to the rhythmic repetitive clashing of the blades. Amusingly, he noted that Boromir’s blade clashed with a heavier, duller sound than the sharp clear notes of the blades that Merry and Pippin carried. He wondered why, briefly, and then dismissed it.

“The likeliest chance is,” Boromir was explaining, “all of your opponents will be much larger than yourselves - with greater strength and reach. You will, then, need to be _faster_. Get inside their guard, too close for them to parry, and then slip away again.” He emphasised his points with quick jabs of his long sword. Legolas fought down a smile, for to his eyes, though he was sure that Boromir was fast for a Man, he would never match an Elf for speed.

Evidently, he did not hide his amusement well enough. For when he looked back over at the trio, Boromir was eyeing him and he could see his own amusement mirrored in his pale grey gaze - even as Merry and Pippin voiced their confusion over the concept.

“Legolas!” Boromir called to him. “Would you like to help me demonstrate a point to the Halflings?”

Legolas hesitated, but only a for a moment and then gave an easy shrug. He was not so terribly injured as to forgo a gentle demonstration of sword techniques. The sword was not his weapon of choice, but it was his father’s, and he had duelled with him often enough. “As you wish.” He slid off the rock, leaving his over-tunic behind folded neatly next to his shoes. “What do you need?”

“Just you.” Boromir was still smiling even as he beckoned him over. “Do you think you can handle an open-hand spar? I wish to show these two the benefits of speed over strength.”

Legolas frowned. _Open-hand? Blasted Westron._ He really ought to have paid greater attention in his classes as an elfling... Realisation struck him. “Oh. You mean no weapons?”

Boromir laughed, loud and hearty. “I believe Aragorn may try to murder me if I suggest you try anything so strenuous.”

Legolas gave another shrug. “Aragorn is neither here, nor my keeper.” That earned him an enthusiastic clap on the back that almost made him stagger. Almost. He still had his dignity.

“Still, best never to risk the wrath of a healer. No weapons.” Though his tone was jovial, Legolas could sense the unyielding will of Boromir beneath it. He did not want to risk further injury to Legolas, especially not if it would delay the Company further, all for the sake of a lesson and light amusement. Legolas resisted the urge to roll his eyes in a distinctly un-Elven fashion, and conceded.

“An...open-hand spar it is then.”

Merry and Pippin, their faces in equally excited grins, hastily beat a retreat to a safe vantage spot, whispering to each other as they went. From what Legolas could catch, they were arguing over which of them would win. Legolas quickly tuned them out, pulling his long hair back into a tail and began to stretch - if nothing else this would be an excellent test of what his old body could do. He did not want to be caught off-guard in a real fight with lives on the line.

“Merry, Pippin, be sure to watch carefully.” Boromir cautioned. “Note how Legolas and I fight, how it plays to our respective strengths. I am the taller, though not by much - but I know my opponent to be faster. But he is injured, so it may play out in my favour.”

Legolas allowed himself the grin this time, a shade more feral side it seemed, for nervousness flitted across Boromir’s face just briefly as they settled into a ready stance. They mirrored each other, hands raised defensively. He had never fought Boromir unarmed before, nor any other Gondorian. He wondered briefly how different he will be to Aragorn, who fought more like an Elf than a Man, and then pushed the thought to one side - Boromir was not Aragorn and he did not have the advantages Legolas had.

If he had been fighting Aragorn, this would have been an entirely different fight - Aragorn knew his fighting style, knew his preferred stances and movements and all his dirty tricks and vice versa. Boromir fortunately did not, having never seen him in any kind of combat, but Legolas had seen _him_. He had years of experience of watching Boromir drill the Hobbits, spar with Aragorn, and fight in live combat - admittedly, all with a sword, but it meant he had a good understanding of Boromir’s way of moving. If Boromir thought he had the upper hand fighting an injured opponent, he was wrong.

Even an injured Elf is a dangerous one. He’d taught Boromir that lesson painfully in their Dark Future.

They locked eyes, each signalling their readiness, and Boromir smiled - _what is he thinking?_

“Begin!” Boromir shouted, and Legolas did not allow himself to hesitate, or give Boromir a moment to launch his own attack. His body, thankfully, is not slow to respond to his will as he thought - he snapped forward, even as Boromir’s command still lingered on the air, and he exulted in his swift response. Only Boromir’s reflexes, honed razor-sharp by years of combat, saved him from the sudden fury of jabs; he kept his forearms raised, gritting his teeth as he blocked and deflected. He never took his eyes off Legolas’ darting form and round and round they spun, locked together: Legolas, quick and fleeting, a bird flashing from branch to branch; Boromir steady as an ancient oak, unmovable and unyielding.

Legolas sprang back abruptly, seeing the shift in Boromir’s determined expression, the changing set of his shoulders - he was just barely in time to dodge the sudden counter-attack. Then suddenly, _he_ was the one on the retreat, driven back the grace and cunning of a master swordsman, coupled with punishingly strong hits. No longer was Boromir planted in place, solid and strong, instead now he had become an avalanche and it was all Legolas could do to stay ahead of him. He did not block, as Boromir had, but instead used his superior speed and flexibility to keep out of range, twisting around the onslaught like wind or smoke.

A laugh escaped him, bright and cheery, because he was having _fun_. There is no real threat here, he could relax and enjoy himself - his father had never wanted his youngest son to become a fighter, but even as an elfling, Legolas had known and taken joy in the vitality of his body, and the thrill of a fight. His merriment seemed to puzzle Boromir for a moment, and that gave Legolas the very chance he had been waiting for. He shifted and slipped under Boromir’s guard, coming up near nose-to-nose with the Man. He saw the abrupt alarm in Boromir’s face, the realisation dawning as he recognises how defenceless he was at that moment. Legolas raised his hands and shoved hard, sending his opponent staggering back several steps, graceless, but to his credit, Boromir did not fall.

Legolas laughed again, a triumphant bark amid the cheers of their audience. The first point was his.

Boromir, never one to be a sore loser, grinned back at him and charged forward with a yell. All pretence of a light spar was abandoned now, the mood of the fight utterly changed. There was no more carefully thought out strategy, gentle testing of each other’s defences, instead it had become more of a friendly brawl, each seeking to pin the other to the ground.

By any means necessary.

Legolas scored a second point well, through a well-placed heel strike to the jaw that would have hurt far more had he been wearing his shoes. Boromir countered with two solid strikes, one to the ribs, the second to the kidneys, leaving Legolas momentarily breathless and disorientated as the phantom screaming echoed in his ears. He shook his head, but when it did not cease, he grit his teeth and threw himself back towards his opponent. They were both beginning to tire, though it showed more obviously on Boromir, they were now both panting and sweating from the drawn out fight, neither willing to concede.

It all fell apart as Boromir narrowly dodged one of Legolas’ arching kicks and made a final lunge, one hand darting out with uncommon swiftness to snatch at the only unguarded part he could see: the swinging tail of golden hair. Legolas saw the trap only too late as an iron grip clamped down on his hair, holding firm, twisting him down into a half-crouch.

The world span dizzily around him, his senses blurring and sharpening alternately in a painful cacophony of sensory input. He became hyper-aware of his own breathing, harsh and edged with panic, but he could not hear Boromir above him speaking. Memories began to crowd to the forefront of his mind, clamouring for attention he refused to give, of pain and torture, of dark mocking laughter, and in the background noise of it all, the endless whispering of the Ring.

He did not think. Could not think. Instead, with instincts scraped raw and sharp in the darkness of a dungeon, _instincts he should never have had_ , he reacted. One hand snapped up, grabbing hold of the offensive wrist of the hand that held him, latching on with bone-breaking strength. His other hand was a blur of motion, snatching up a small knife that he kept on his belt and slicing upwards without looking, trusting only in the reactions of his body. His mind caught up only when it was too late to stop himself, as the knife sheared through his hair with ease.

 _Freedom_.

He staggered away from the Man, leaving a trail of golden strands on the air behind, and forced himself upright, panting and wild-eyed but ready to fight again. His opponent would not be stunned for long, he had only a few seconds to plan now and he did not have a good weapon to hand, could he run? He was weary, but an Elf can run tirelessly under threat. It might be for the best—

A heavy hand landed on his shoulder, and startled, he turned, ready to defend himself.

 _Mithrandir_.

Ancient blue eyes stared down at him, compassionate but with a hint of warning; and Legolas abruptly felt like a child again, pinned beneath the gaze of his disappointed father. Legolas blinked, coming back into the moment, even as his limbs began to tremble with exertion. The Man before him blurred and became Boromir again, no longer an unknown enemy but a friend, looking to him with concern and confusion, holding a handful of golden hair. _Oh_. The Hobbits no longer look amused or entertained, indeed, Frodo’s expression was guarded and Pippin’s was fearful.

“Legolas, I...” Boromir seemed to be lost for words. Legolas knew he should say something, anything, to soothe them and laugh the situation away. But he could not. The words did not come, not in Westron or any other language. How could he explain himself? He saw the cracks then, in Boromir’s bracer, and knew that he had done that. Shame flooded him.

_What have I done?_

“I think that’s quite enough for today,” Mithrandir said, not releasing Legolas’ shoulder, as if he knows that it is the only thing holding the Elf in the moment, and indeed, in this place - for if that grip was to slacken even for a moment, Legolas would flee from their judging fearful gazes. Boromir nodded, his soldier’s mask sliding back into place, guarding his thoughts once more. He stepped forward, pressing the remains of Legolas’ hair into his hand, with sympathy.

“I apologise,” he said, though he could not meet Legolas’ gaze. “It was a good fight though.”

Legolas forced himself to manage a small smile and accept the tail of hair. “No apology is needed,” he said, and his voice was deceptively light. “It is I that should apologise. I forgot myself for a moment, and reacted as I should not have. Forgive me?” He gave a small bow, and miraculously, feels the mood around them clear. At that moment, the tension bleeds away, dispelled by his gentle, rueful grin.

Boromir smiled back. “All is forgiven and forgotten, Legolas. That was quite a move! I do not know if I would have been able to manage that.”

Mithrandir lifted his hand from Legolas’ shoulder at that moment, and Legolas did not feel the urge to flee now. He was safe, safe, safe. Instead he let himself be led over to the cluster of Hobbits who were now excitedly discussing the fight. How quick they are to forget their fear, he thought, but then saw the lingering wariness in Frodo’s eyes. He will have to deal with that soon.

But for the moment, he sat side by side with Boromir, surrounded by the Hobbits, enjoying the steadiness of Boromir beside him. They had never been close the last time around, but this felt... _different_. Good different. Perhaps this time they would be friends. Merry and Pippin, sensing the change in mood, did not ask for the rest of their sword-fighting lesson, but instead peppered them with endless questions. Legolas let Boromir field most of them, preferring to interject when necessary, but otherwise was content to listen, his hands busily trying to tidy his unevenly chopped hair into something a little more dignified.

And when Aragorn returned, almost an hour later, he was startled to see the normally quiet Elf in the middle of this noisy affair, sporting a new shorter haircut. But when his questioning gaze locked with Legolas’, he was rewarded with a nonchalant shrug and a grin. Legolas could only hope it came across that way, and it seemed to, for Aragorn could only roll his eyes and move instead to speak to Mithrandir.

Legolas watched him go for a long moment, before his attention was snatched by Pippin’s next earnest question. How the youngest Hobbit failed to run out of questions to ask before they set off again on the next stage of their journey was beyond Legolas’ knowing. It was, at least, amusing - and he caught Sam’s fascinated stare whenever the line of questioning turned to Elven culture or Legolas’ upbringing in Mirkwood.

As they packed up their camp for the night, Legolas lingered behind for a moment. The sun was only just edging towards the horizon again, and the light was beginning to dim. He let out a sigh and swiftly buried the tail of hair, hiding all trace of the freshly disturbed ground beneath a stone. As he did, he felt as though the heavy knot of stress that he had been carrying since he had awoken had loosened just a little. He wasn’t sure why, but he was almost glad of it.

His task done, he straightened up and hurried catch up to the Fellowship, never noticing the crows that wheeled overhead.


	6. Interlude: Boromir

The first few snowflakes began to fall on the Company as they approached the foothills of Caradhras, late in the afternoon. Boromir liked this land not even a little, for it was land fit only for ambush and falls - the sudden dips and rabbit holes to trip an unwary foot, the cracks from the shifting lands that required even a grown man to leap over, and the high piles of rocks and fallen trees that could hide any number of foes. It was an unfriendly land, and now even the weather turned against them. He blinked up at the heavy grey sky, giving it a thoughtful look over.

_Snow? This far south, in the lowlands?_

It was unusual to say the least, but he was not as familiar with the Misty Mountains as he was with those that towered over Minas Tirith. A quick glance at Aragorn’s worried frown confirmed his fears: this snowfall was definitely out of the norm and unexpected.

Boromir made his way up the Company, pulling Aragorn to one side. The Ranger, thankfully, did not protest, but came with an almost wry twist to his mouth - perhaps then he knew what Boromir had come to say? No matter, he would say it anyway, and perhaps this time Aragorn would see reason.

“Boromir—” Aragorn began, but Boromir spoke over him.

“Surely now you see the mountains are closed to us,” he pressed in a low voice. “If it is snowing in the foothills then far higher, in the passes? It will be impossible. Perhaps you or I could manage it, with perseverance and enough supplies; but the Halflings? They are barely coping now, see how Peregrin shivers? They have not the experience with hard travel for such a trek.”

“All ways are closed to us,” Aragorn said with a weary sigh. “If we cannot go through the pass, and Saruman watches the Gap at Isengard then we are trapped west of the mountains.” He cast a look at Gandalf. “And that leaves us with no option but those I would not wish upon even my worst enemy.”

Boromir frowned, uncertain of Aragorn’s meaning, but unwilling to profess ignorance. “What then of the High Pass that Master Bilbo spoke of in Rivendell? Could we not retrace our steps and try there?”

But Aragorn was already shaking his head even as Boromir spoke. “Time presses us, and if the Pass of Caradhras is already under snow, then the northern passes will be even worse. We must go on, and brave the Redhorn Gate.”

“And so ever the noose tightens about us,” Boromir muttered, but Aragorn had already moved away, striding forward to speak again to Gandalf. Boromir allowed himself to drift back into the main body of the Fellowship, where the Hobbits were all clustered as close to the pony as they could and still walk.

“Now see here,” Samwise was saying as he came closer, “here’s Master Boromir and he’ll tell us straight.”

Boromir raised an eyebrow, amused, as four small and very serious faces turned up to look at him. Fondness surged in him, as, just for a moment, they had reminded him of a much younger Faramir, looking to his brother for advice and support. He knew - and had been pointedly told by no less than _three_ individuals before leaving Rivendell - that the Hobbits were all adults and should be treated as such (save for young Peregrin, who was a _tween_ , which in his own words was “near enough”). But there were times when he could not help but think of them all with the same protective fondness that he had for Faramir - even if Frodo was _ten years_ his elder.

“Tell you all what, exactly?”

“The mountains,” Peregrin pushed past chattering teeth. The hobbits were so used to the much warmer lands of the Shire, where winters were mild and summers were warm, and Peregrin, youngest of them all, had little tolerance for the bitter cold that lurked in the shadows of a mountain range in winter. “We-we’re not going any closer are we?”

“That was Strider’s plan,” Frodo said in his calm steady voice. “And Gandalf’s too.” He looked up at Boromir and it suddenly struck him of the intensity in Frodo’s blue eyes - there was too much _knowing_ in those eyes, and how akin they were to Gandalf’s at times. Was it the Ring? Had it changed Frodo so quickly?

Boromir nodded. “That was indeed the plan. It is Aragorn’s belief that the Redhorn Gate will still be passable when we reach it. Otherwise, we will need a new plan.” He gave them his most reassuring smile. “Never fear, you have Men with you with much experience of hard travel - we will find a way.”

Not a single one of the Hobbits looked even vaguely reassured - which stung Boromir’s pride only a little. But he could not blame them for their worry, even as it gnawed at his own heart.

“I reckon we will manage,” Meriadoc said, with an air of almost deliberate cheerfulness. “Gimli, at least, does not seem worried, and I think he would know of the dangers of mountains better than the rest of us.”

Boromir followed the young Hobbit’s gaze to where Gimli was ahead of them, speaking with both Aragorn and Gandalf. The Dwarf was speaking rapidly, gesturing as he went, and from what Boromir could see of his face, there was no worry there, only an eagerness to press on.

He frowned. “But where then is our Elven companion?”

“Legolas?” Meriadoc gave a quizzical look and then pointed back over his shoulder. “Some way behind us, last I saw. Lost in his own thoughts, I think, for he did not seem to notice us waving at him to join us earlier.”

Samwise quickly jumped in to hush him, but Meriadoc continued regardless. “Don’t start that, Sam. I’m not saying anything bad, just…well, I’d almost say he reminds me a bit of Mister Bilbo in some ways. Since he fell, I mean.”

It was Frodo’s turn to frown, and asked, with a hint of defensiveness, “What do you mean, Merry?”

Meriadoc gave a shrug. “You know exactly what I mean, cousin. You cannot say you never saw how Bilbo behaved at times. Those little starts, the way he would spend days locked away in his study unwilling to speak with anyone, even _you_. Or how he would sometimes trail off in the middle of a story and get that look on his face, like he was a thousand leagues away and seeing something awful. Especially whenever he talked about that Battle at the mountain, you know the one I mean, from his adventure.”

It was _odd,_ Boromir was forced to admit. But then, not something he had not seen himself. For there had been many times when he had seen men returning from battles against the darkness in the East, but returned…different. It was much the same as the way Legolas now acted, he thought. But why now? It was so strange compared to his behaviour in Rivendell, and in the early days of their Quest - then he had been reserved, but it had been an uncertainty, almost shyness - not this hesitant watchfulness.

Boromir cleared his throat, breaking the silence that had fallen between them at Meriadoc’s words. “I shall go and fetch him then; it would not do for us to become separated in this growing snowfall. Go on and catch up with the others, and stay close with them!”

And with that, he turned and headed further back down their trail to where the Elf was walking, solitary, but as Boromir approached, he looked up, his gaze sharp and disconcerting. There was a layer of guardedness in those bright Elven eyes, and a seriousness that reminded him of Faramir when he was in one of his moods.

“Master Legolas,” he said with a smile.

Briefly, he thought he saw confusion passed across Legolas’ face, but as quickly as it came, it was gone and Legolas was smiling, bright and cheerful. “Master Boromir.”

Boromir fell into step with him, uncertain of what to say. His wrist ached, fierce and sudden, an uncomfortable reminder of the sparring match he had coaxed Legolas into - he had been right, in the end, Aragorn had been furious when he had spotted the rapidly forming bruises that now decorated Boromir’s wrist and the deep cracks in his bracer.

A pang of guilt echoed deep in him as he watched the wind catch at the Elf’s newly shorn locks, and the way he irritably pushed the shorter strands behind pointed ears. It was a very human gesture, one that Boromir would not have expected from an Elf.

Legolas caught his stare and gave him a rueful grin. “I have not had hair so short since I was an Elfling. I am…unused to it, I suppose. Though how I wish it were not so windy!”

Caught off guard, Boromir gave a small chuckle. “You seem to be managing well enough.”

“I will feel better when it is long enough for proper braids once more.” Legolas pointedly tugged on a braid, less than half the length that it used to be. “I fear I will be mistaken for a child if we should happen to meet any of my kin.”

“Is it likely that we would?” Boromir gestured at the empty lands around them, bleak and haunting. No man would think to live in such desolate places, where the wind howled and wolves roamed. “This does not exactly seem like a place where Elves would wander.”

“Once we did.” Legolas hummed a few mournful lonely notes. “In these lands, many Elves dwelt in the Second Age. But like many of my kin, war and enemies have driven them far from home.”

“Did you ever come here?”

Legolas looked at him sharply, surprised. “Me? No, no, Master Boromir. I am not nearly so old as that. And I suspect you have seen more travel than I have, lands far beyond your own borders.”

Boromir flushed. “And yet, to you, I must seem a child. We all must, surely, given our comparative ages.”

A shrug was Legolas’ only answer, and Boromir scrambled to keep the conversation going. What would Faramir say? His brother was always the more empathic one, with wisdom and gentle understanding, where Boromir felt he blundered past the emotions and struggles of others with all the delicacy of an oliphaunt.

“Have you ever been to Gondor?” He blurted out and then mentally chastised himself. Could he speak of nothing but himself? Legolas had just said he was not widely travelled!

To his surprise, Legolas gave a thoughtful hum. “I have. For a little while I was there, though my memories of that time are…not the most pleasant.”

“If fortune holds true, Master Legolas, then our paths will lead us there together.” He nodded, mostly to himself, for how his heart longed to returned to the White City, to his family and his people. “And then, I will make sure that you remember Gondor more fondly the next time someone asks.”

The look Legolas gave him then was strange, melancholy and almost pained. “You would do anything for your people, would you not?”

The question was like a knife in Boromir’s chest - a pain that was almost physical. “I would,” he whispered. “I can think of nothing I would not do to preserve Gondor, even if it meant my life. We are a proud people, and stubborn, but there is such beauty and courage, Master Legolas. I cannot bear the thought of seeing it destroyed.” Boromir pushed aside his dark thoughts, the images of Minas Tirith in flames that his imagination conjured. “There is nowhere like Minas Tirith in all of Middle Earth. I am certain that your own Elven cities are beautiful, in their own way, but to my own eyes, biased as they may be, nothing can surpass our White City. It is like a white flame, set to burn against the darkness of Mordor, built from stone to endure all that might come up against it. When the sun rises in the morning, and the light catches the Tower of Ecthelion, there is no sight that can match it - the blaze of gleaming colours beneath the banner of the Stewards.” He sighed, for how often had he and Faramir ridden home from a hard journey or battle, only to see their city light up under the morning sun. It had never failed to bring hope back into their weary hearts.

“I hope then you see it once again,” Legolas said in a strained voice. “And that your city endures against the gathering darkness.”

Boromir shook himself, dispelling the fond memories. “Come now, Master Legolas. We have dawdled with these maudlin words - and I came to urge you to stay close! We will lose sight of the others if we do not hurry.”

“They are not so far ahead as that,” Legolas said. “I can hear them ahead of us, worry not.”

Boromir strained his ears, but could hear little, and see little, past the swirling snow, save for a figure that approached them with quick long strides that were unmistakable. _Aragorn._

As it was, he almost missed Legolas’ distress until the Elf pressed a hand against his forehead as if it pained him, and his entire body trembled with tension, like a drawn bowstring. Boromir placed a hand on his shoulder in concern, and was batted away almost immediately with alarming strength.

“What ails you?” Boromir tried to hide the crack of alarm in his voice. He had been fine only a moment ago. “Legolas, Aragorn is coming - he will know what to do.”

Legolas groaned, shaking his head, and forcing himself to relax. “I am fine. I am fine. Do not tell him, I beg.”

“Legolas, if you are unwell—”

“ _Please.”_

The desperation in both his voice and in the eyes that he turned to lock on Boromir’s was hard to resist. “This is unwise—” he warned.

“I know. But Aragorn will not understand.”

And then, as quickly as it had come, all trace of distress was gone from those fair features, replaced by a warm smile that he turned on Aragorn.

“Is all well?” Aragorn asked, a trace of suspicion lurking in his voice. Tension crackled on their air between Elf and Ranger, a tension that had been growing these past few days. There was something that Legolas was keeping from them all, and it seemed that it frustrated Aragorn most of all.

“Perfectly well,” Legolas responded blithely, almost as if he had been out for a summer stroll. “Though I confess, I had not realised we had fallen so far behind the others. Boromir was telling me of Minas Tirith and I fear we got carried away.”

The piercing gaze of Aragorn turned on Boromir, who felt it was all too similar to the looks his father used to level at him as a child whenever he suspected mischief had been unleashed in his citadel. Fortunately, Boromir was accomplished at lying to such a familiar look.

“It is as he says, Aragorn. I should have realised how time was running away from us - after all, I had originally intended to fetch Master Legolas so that we did not become separated from the rest of the Company.” He managed a rueful laugh and pushed a few stray strands of hair back from his face. “Will we be going much further this day? The snow does not seem to be getting very thick but it is a nuisance. We will not be able to see an ambush coming once the sun begins to set.”

“At least the darkness will hide us from prying eyes.” Aragorn said. “But it would be better if we were all to stay close to each other now, for we are in territories where wolf packs often roam. Gandalf and I have decided we shall go on for as long as we can manage, while we have the snow to cover our approach towards Caradhras.”

Boromir turned to Legolas, meaning only to give a friendly smile, but caught instead the fierce concentration that crossed the Elf’s face as he peered into the snow. How quickly he changed his mood, that sudden intensity that seemed to come from nowhere! Aragorn caught the look on his face too, and said something low in Elvish that Boromir did not catch - he was not Faramir, the Elven tongues had never been something he had studied with any enthusiasm and he had regrettably allowed his understanding of them to fade.

They were all looking the wrong way.

From out of the swirling snow the wolves leapt from the rocks that towered over the company. Boromir had been right about this land from the start - too good for ambush, and he had allowed himself to become complacent, distracted. They had never thought to look above them. Too late, Legolas whirled, crying alarm.

_“Aragorn!”_


End file.
